


Swan Song

by legendtripper



Series: Sparrow's Speedrun Ships (OR: A Collection of Short Oneshots Examining Various Relationships) [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Gay Boys Talk About Stars, I Keep Doing This But, Insomnia, M/M, Stargazing, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, another character study, but speedrun, no beta we die like men, oh boy, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendtripper/pseuds/legendtripper
Summary: "Eventually, Hank feels compelled to fill the relative silence."Couldn't sleep, huh?"Kamski laughs bitterly. "No, I suppose not. I didn't wake you, did I?""Don't worry, I'm used to it," Hank says. "I sleep light.""Hmm. Rather unfortunate, don't you think?"Hank shrugs. "No comment.""Fair enough.""OR: Connor forgets that humans generally don't like to sleep together, but maybe that's not such a bad thing in this case.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Elijah Kamski
Series: Sparrow's Speedrun Ships (OR: A Collection of Short Oneshots Examining Various Relationships) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791100
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Swan Song

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another two-hour enemies to lovers speedrun fic! I keep writing these at two a.m. and then being inordinately proud of them. I hope you like my somewhat botched retelling of Greek mythology.
> 
> I just love these boys, okay?

Hank Anderson has never been a particularly heavy sleeper.

Ever since Cole died, his Circadian rhythm has been fucked to hell and back, toeing the unenviable line of _light nap_ and _drunken coma_. Since Connor's arrived on the scene, it's certainly gotten _better_ , but it's by no means ideal.

Staying in new places always makes it worse.

Though the mistake is an honest one, a situation borne of unfortunate circumstances and unusually shitty timing, Hank can't help the flicker of irritation at Connor for booking a B&B with only one bed. Once Fowler announced he was giving the two of them a long weekend, Connor jumped at the chance to plan a proper vacation for the two of them. Hank was essentially on board—he could stand the down time—until Connor announced he had invited Elijah Kamski, Hank's somewhat sworn enemy, along for the ride.

"The fuck are you _thinking_ , Con?" Hank had exclaimed, letting the words fly out of his mouth without stopping by his brain for a check-in. " _Him_?"

Connor, to his credit, seemed rather unfazed by Hank's outburst, though Hank has thrown his partner against walls far more frequently than he'd care to admit, so he supposes Connor's relative nonchalance makes a modicum of sense.

"Mr. Kamski has proven himself to be a trustworthy individual on multiple occasions since the revolution," Connor explained in an infuriatingly steady tone.

"Yeah? To _who_?"

"Whom." Connor's snide correction didn't catch Hank by surprise, but it was rather irritating.

Hank crossed his arms.

Connor, in return, sighed. "I know you and Mr. Kamksi haven’t started on the best of terms—"

"You can say that again."

It was glaringly obvious that Connor will take that seriously, so Hank quickly added, "But please don't."

Connor frowned. "I would simply appreciate you attempting to tolerate his company. Just for a few days."

" _Hell_ no."

"Hank, please?"

And _goddammit_ , Hank could never say no to him.

Which is how Hank finds himself staring down the prospect at having to get real buddy-buddy with Elijah Kamski _real_ fast.

The only furniture that adorns the room, aside from the king-size bed, is a set of three high-backed chairs, with intricately crafted filigree around the edges and precise needlework adorning the cushions. Hank, to be blunt, couldn't give a shit. Because all that's a fancy way of saying there isn't a couch, and Elijah seems dead set on avoiding the floor. Similarly, Hank's back can't take even two hours in the recliner, so he shudders to think what the hardwood will do to it.

The prospect of sleeping with a man he despises does not fill Hank with joy.

Kamski studies the bed, hands on his hips and lip caught between his teeth.

"I suppose we'll have to share," he says eventually. There's no emotion in his voice, merely a simple statement of fact; no couch, no floor, two people, one bed.

Laid out like that, it doesn't sound so bad.

Hank shrugs.

"Eh, it's a king. We'll be okay." He's not certain who he's trying to reassure, Kamski or himself.

Kamski seems to agree. He flips the comforter back, running a finger over the bedsheets (midnight black and startlingly soft, Hank notes).

"I hope you don't kick," is all he says before retreating into the bathroom to begin his lengthy evening routine.

Hank flips him off as he goes.

For Hank's part, his "nighttime prep" means a grand total of two minutes of shucking the day's clothes, tossing them in a haphazard pile in the corner, and pulling on an old high school tee and a pair of gym shorts. Connor, excusing himself apologetically, turns in early and steps into the charging port provided by the B&B, eyes flickering closed and LED dimming to a gentle, pulsing blue. Kind of reminds Hank of an old computer in sleep mode, and he snorts at the comparison. The literal inventor of androids is in the bathroom not ten feet from him and Hank's poking fun at his designs.

 _Poetic_.

As it turns out, Kamski wears glasses. Hank didn't know this. However, as he sifts through his early memories, he recalls one or two interviews where he wore a similar pair to the ones perched on his nose now, though the ones from the early '20s lacked a certain grace that the simple wire frames lend to his face now.

Hank, making deliberate eye contact with a message he hasn't quite figured out yet, gingerly lowers himself onto the mattress, pulling the blankets up to his chin. Kamski gives him a similarly ambiguous look, actually straightens the collar of his ridiculous pajama shirt, delicately folds his glasses up and places them on the nightstand, and crawls into bed with a similar enthusiasm.

"Good night," he says eventually, turning his back to Hank.

After a moment, Hank settles on, "'Night," and reaches out to tap the lamp off.

He doesn't expect his sleep to be _restful_ , necessarily, but being unexpectedly jolted awake by Kamski delicately extricating himself from Hank's limbs is rather unnerving. Hank, on some level, knows he tends to grab the nearest thing and just _hold on_ when he sleeps, he just kind of ... forgot it would be Kamski. He makes a mental note to apologize when Kamski gets back from wherever he's going—probably the bathroom—then immediately thinks the better of it. No need to draw attention to something probably only he cares about.

But Kamski doesn't come back. Instead, he opens the window, crawling out onto one of the many gables. Hank, unable to contain his curiosity, quietly slips out of bed and follows him.

As a courtesy, he knocks on the window frame with a knuckle, so as not to startle Kamski by just clambering through the window to join him. It does not have the intended effect.

Kamski flinches, ever so slightly, and looks back at Hank with a manic stare, before softening slightly.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I didn't realize it was you."

"Yeah, yeah," Hank waves him off, "don't get your panties in a twist."

Kamski looks away, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good." Hank points to the gable. "Mind if I join you?"

"Of course not," Kamski says, scooting slightly to the left to make room. Hank gratefully accepts the hand he offers and hauls himself into the autumn night.

They're quiet for a moment, listening to the crickets and the ocean waves a little ways off and an occasional owl or rustle in the underbrush. It's peaceful, remarkably so. Hank can see why Connor picked it.

Eventually, Hank feels compelled to fill the relative silence.

"Couldn't sleep, huh?"

Kamski laughs bitterly. "No, I suppose not. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"Don't worry, I'm used to it," Hank says. "I sleep light."

"Hmm. Rather unfortunate, don't you think?"

Hank shrugs. "No comment."

"Fair enough." Kamski smiles, looking up at the sky, where thousands of stars twinkle merrily. There are probably more stars here than Hank's ever seen in his life, the night shimmering like a tapestry, all dark satins and inlaid diamonds.

"Are you familiar with the constellations, Lieutenant?" Kamski asks, rather out of the blue.

Hank quirks a brow. 

“We’re literally shootin’ the shit in our fuckin’ pajamas, you can drop the _‘Lieutenant’_ crap.”

Kamski laughs lightly. “Alright, _Hank_. You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Well, _Elijah_ ,” Hank retorts, Kamski’s—no, _Elijah’s_ —name rolling smoothly off his tongue, “I thought it would be obvious.”

“You’d be surprised,” Elijah says, picking at one of the shingles with an idle thumb. “I was just … curious, I suppose.”

Hank smiles. “Surprise me, then.”

Elijah’s eyes—glacial, piercing—reflect the stars perfectly, and they seem to twinkle with mirth as he takes Hank’s hand, slowly folding it into a pointing shape.

From there, Elijah guides Hank’s hand to a bright star almost directly above them.

“That’s Polaris,” he says softly.

“The North star,” Hank echoes. “Sailors follow it, right?”

“Yes.” Elijah’s beaming. “Since before the written record, the North star has guided those who are lost.”

“Home?”

“I suppose so, if that’s what they sought.”

“What else, then?”

Elijah drums his fingers on the rooftop. “Somewhere new. Uncharted.”

Hank ponders this. It reminds him of Elijah, in a way. A beacon.

“There,” Hank says, gesturing to another set of stars. “What’s that?”

“That, my friend, is Ursa Major. The Great Bear.”

Pulling Hank’s hand along, Elijah traces the outline of the constellation, whispering the names of the individual stars under his breath as he goes. Hank finds himself entranced.

Elijah shows him many things that night. Capricornus. Virgo. Mars. The Milky Way. At some point, the International Space Station II passes over and Hank, ridiculously, childishly, _waves_ at it. The wind murmurs through the trees, cool breeze cutting the dregs of the stifling summer heat. Elijah’s hand is warm on his wrist.

“What’s your favorite?” Hank actually interrupts one of Elijah’s lengthy tangents to ask, but so sue him, he’s curious.

Elijah pauses to consider this. “My very favorite?”

Hank nods.

Lips pursed, Elijah studies the night sky intently. His thick black hair is untied, falling in loose curls over the side of his face, and Hank pushes down the ridiculous urge to brush the strays away.

Eventually, Elijah gestures to a small gap in a copse of trees, where a small cluster of stars just barely peaks through.

“Corona Borealis,” he says simply. “The Northern Crown.”

The constellation itself isn’t much, just a tight-knit grouping of seven dim pinpricks of light. Hank figures there must be a story behind it.

Elijah is more than willing to provide.

“The Northern Crown symbolizes the hubris of man and the terror it hath wrought,” Elijah says. “The daughter of a king, turned wife of a hero, abandoned by both, despite the fact that she was nothing but kind. A god fell in love with her and bestowed her with a lovely jeweled crown. When she died, the king of the gods placed her crown in the sky, where it remains.”

Hank watches as Elijah’s shoulders tense minutely.

“Are you alright?” he can’t stop himself from asking.

Elijah laughs bitterly. “Do you know why I came out here tonight?”

“I’m assuming it isn’t just because you drank too much coffee?”

“No, not really. I …” Seemingly unconsciously, Elijah squeezes Hank’s hand. Hank returns the gesture. “Sometimes I just … I wonder if those around me are doomed to a similar fate.” He looks at his knees, drawn in tight to his chest.

Hank smiles, resting a comforting hand on Elijah’s back.

“I don’t wanna sound like a nagging husband—”

“You already do.”

“—but you should come back to bed.”

Elijah sighs, long and deep. He rubs his eyes.

“You’re right. As ever.”

With that, Elijah crawls back inside, once again assisting Hank over the sill. As soon as he’s through, Elijah quietly shuts the window so as not to risk waking Connor. The bed seems much more inviting, now. After all that.

“After you,” Hank whispers. Elijah nods, pulling the blankets over himself. Hank is right behind, tiptoeing around the pair of boots he accidentally left in the middle of the floor.

Hank’s about to turn over for the night when he notices something.

“Elijah,” Hank mumbles. Elijah blinks up at him sleepily. “Your glasses.”

“Huh?”

Rolling his eyes, Hank reaches up to lift Elijah’s glasses off his face. Oddly enough, Elijah watches that simple action, fascinated.

Hank folds the glasses and places them on his own nightstand, checking the clock. _3:37_.

“Good night, Elijah,” Hank murmurs. Elijah simply stares at him, brow furrowed, lips pursed. He’s thinking.

“Elijah?”

And before Hank really knows what’s happening, Elijah’s hands are cupping Hank’s cheeks and he’s kissing him, soft and slow and with _meaning_. Hank blinks for a moment—caught off guard, sure, but not really _shocked_ , all things considered—before closing his eyes to properly lean into it. Elijah’s fingers ghost over his cheekbones, resting in his hair, and Hank pulls him in closer by the waist.

 _Cygnus_ , he vaguely remembers from the rooftop astronomy lesson. _Phaethon, a vain god, brought down by his own arrogance, and his grieving lover, who gathered his bones and placed them in the sky._

“Thank you,” Elijah mumbles against Hank’s lips.

When they finally break apart, Hank swears Elijah’s eyes hold the universe.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone wanna stargaze and talk about Greek gays with me? No? Okay, cool.
> 
> Read my other stuff!
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://legendtripper.tumblr.com/) (@legendtripper) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/legendtripperb) (@legendtripperb)!
> 
> Leave a comment if you're feeling generous! They feed the parasitic writing monster living in my stomach that threatens to consume me.
> 
> And have a lovely day!


End file.
